[N.B.: The inside joke here is my longstanding crush on the New Yorker film critic Anthony Lane, who is not only a hilarious and insightful reviewer (see the description of Legolas's takedown of the mumak at this link), but, I believe, the world's closest living embodiment of Lord Peter Wimsey. Placetne? Hell yeah.]
February 8, 2004. Cads will be cads, but he'd been one cad too many, thought Miss Dynamite as she replaced her revolver. "Farewell, my lovely," she whispered as she let herself out. She needed a drink, she needed a vacation, she needed a whole lot of life insurance, she needed a barge with purple sails with a Tony who knew the difference between hardballs and highballs. What she had was a coat, a pen, and a manuscript.
"Grand Central, and step on it," she told the cabbie. The Campbell Apartment was all lit up for the holidays, and she'd been a very good girl. The Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith sat in front of the Campbell like an expensive Christmas present, and it unwrapped itself into something tall, dark, and handsome.
"Damn," she said as she took Handsome's arm. "I thought I was through for the day."
"Hiya to you, too, Gorgeous."
"You're still wrong."
"I thought we'd called it quits."
"I like long, slow goodbyes."
He took a break to get a grip and a Manhattan. "Still a Bellini and nothing else, doll?"
She set him straight and gave the manuscript to Charlie behind the bar. No sense in being careless. With a guy like Norman, you played your cards close to your chest, and he'd dealt the Knave of Hearts once too often.
"That guy over there's giving you the eye," he said, putting down his drink and picking up his cigarette, before he remembered the mayor.
"A Manhattan's not a Manhattan in Manhattan anymore," she commiserated, eyeing the guy right back. He winked, and Norman saw it.
"That goddamn Anthony Lane!"
She gave both of them a cool smile. Here was a Tony who knew the difference.
February 8, 2004. Cads will be cads, but he'd been one cad too many, thought Miss Dynamite as she replaced her revolver. "Farewell, my lovely," she whispered as she let herself out. She needed a drink, she needed a vacation, she needed a whole lot of life insurance, she needed a barge with purple sails with a Tony who knew the difference between hardballs and highballs. What she had was a coat, a pen, and a manuscript.
"Grand Central, and step on it," she told the cabbie. The Campbell Apartment was all lit up for the holidays, and she'd been a very good girl. The Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith sat in front of the Campbell like an expensive Christmas present, and it unwrapped itself into something tall, dark, and handsome.
"Damn," she said as she took Handsome's arm. "I thought I was through for the day."
"Hiya to you, too, Gorgeous."
"You're still wrong."
"I thought we'd called it quits."
"I like long, slow goodbyes."
He took a break to get a grip and a Manhattan. "Still a Bellini and nothing else, doll?"
She set him straight and gave the manuscript to Charlie behind the bar. No sense in being careless. With a guy like Norman, you played your cards close to your chest, and he'd dealt the Knave of Hearts once too often.
"That guy over there's giving you the eye," he said, putting down his drink and picking up his cigarette, before he remembered the mayor.
"A Manhattan's not a Manhattan in Manhattan anymore," she commiserated, eyeing the guy right back. He winked, and Norman saw it.
"That goddamn Anthony Lane!"
She gave both of them a cool smile. Here was a Tony who knew the difference.